


The Shame and the Glory

by DachOsmin



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Blackmail, Crueltide, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Public Sex, Throne Sex, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Vortigern teaches Arthur what it means to sit on the throne of England.





	The Shame and the Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonnymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonnymouse/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [耻辱与荣耀](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14374617) by [lyreann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyreann/pseuds/lyreann)



Arthur looks up at Vortigern through the bars of his cell, weary and wary behind the fall of his golden hair. “What happens next?”

Vortigern permits himself a moment to admire the man before replying with a snide smile. “You know what happens next. You’re quickly becoming a legend.”

***

As he stalks back to his chambers later that night Vortigern admits to himself that despite all his bluster he does not, in fact, know what to do with Arthur.

The boy must die; that is simple enough.

But he will not have Arthur as a noble martyr, staring at death unbowed and unbroken. He will not have stories of Arthur’s majesty fluttering about the kingdom, rekindling the fires of rebellion he has worked so hard to see burned to ash.

He must not simply kill the boy, but end him. When Arthur greets the headman’s axe all the fire in his eyes must be extinguished. The townspeople must see only a husk, a burned-out shell of something that once was great.

Easier said than done.

He has learned in his years of kingship that there are three ways to break a man: pain, grief, and shame.

Pain is the easiest of the three to produce. He has men well skilled in the way of racks and nails and pliers, but they stretch their art out over days. Every minute Arthur draws breath is a minute the rebels will plot and plan a rescue. Vortigern cannot suffer Arthur to live past the next sunset.

Grief can rend the soul more quickly than torture. Vortigern considers the whores he has corralled in the lower dungeon, the ones that raised the boy. He could kill them and make Arthur watch. But then again, grief does not always break a man; sometimes it rouses him instead. Better not to risk it. Better to be sure.

Shame, then.

He nods to himself, the decision made. And as he makes the necessary preparations he allows himself to feel just a hint of eagerness.

***

Arthur is to be executed at high noon, that the townspeople might see clearly the spray of blood and the roll of his head across the dais. Anything to put to rest the mantle of legend Arthur has begun to wear about himself like a cloak.

As the sun sets the night before the execution, Vortigern arrays himself on the seat of his throne and sends for Arthur. He sprawls as he waits, arrays his cape over the armrests and the dais. As he hears footsteps echoing closer he raises a hand and examines the cut of his nails. Best not to look too eager.

Even so, his breath hitches as Arthur enters the room.

He walks between two of Vortigern’s masked guards, specially chosen for their silence. They hold him at the shoulder and the bound wrist so that he jostles against them with every step. And every time they touch him he bridles, his jaw clenching and the muscles in his neck straining in anger. When he catches sight of Vortigern his eyes narrow and his lips curl back in a terrible scowl.

Vortigern can feel the heat of his hatred, and it warms him, settling in his body like a heady sip of wine. This glorious caged lion, this snarling bit of fire-

“Arthur,” he purrs.

Arthur doesn’t deign to reply, just stares at the ground with anger writ in every line of his body.

Well that won’t do. Vortigern tuts his disapproval. “The whores have spoken most earnestly of your innocence. We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would we?” He will kill the women eventually, but for now he wants to savor that deadly hope in Arthur’s eyes. There is nothing sweet in bringing a defeated beast to heel.

Arthur offers a jerky nod. “Please- they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“They have sheltered a traitor, have they not?”

“I’m not a...” Arthur pauses, swallows. “I’m loyal.”

Vortigern fights back a smile. “I am loyal…?”

“I am loyal... sir.” The last word is spat, like Arthur doesn’t want it fouling his mouth.

Oh, but this will be fun.

He nods gravely to Arthur. “I am gratified to hear it. And in my mercy, I thought to offer you a chance to prove your loyalty.”

Arthur lets out a bitter chuckle. “You’ll still kill me though, aye?”

Vortigern affects a moue of regret. “Even I cannot bend the laws of the realm on a whim.” Not entirely true, of course. But it pays to observe the formalities of his position, even if only in lip service. He clears his throat and continues. “Treason must be repaid with death. But your cooperation would reflect well on your… ladies.”

The imperceptible swallow, the clench in his hands- Vortigern has him as neatly as a fish on a hook. Now he has only to reel in his catch.

He waves away the guards at Arthur’s sides; they retreat to stand in masked silence on either side of the hall.

Alone and bound, Arthur looks both lesser and more. He is dwarfed by the columns of the hall and the oppressive darkness that lurks between them. But there is still a nobility to him, fierce and proud, and no one looking at him could doubt that they stood before anything less than a king. The presence of a king- it worries at Vortigern like a sore in his mouth. He hates Arthur even as some base part of him yearns to kneel before Arthur. And that will not do.

“Approach,” he calls.

Arthur stiffens, but does as he’s told. His feet drag as he approaches the dais. He stops a handful of paces away.

“Closer,” says Vortigern.

Arthur takes a few more hesitant steps so that he stands close enough that Vortigern could reach out and touch him if he wished. Vortigern leans back in his throne and spreads his legs apart in a sprawl.

“Closer.”

Two steps further, and Arthur’s legs are mere inches from the throne. Vortigern can see the perspiration on Arthur’s brow, the gleam when he nervously licks his lips.

“ _Closer.”_

Arthur takes one more step, so that his knees are flush with the edge of the throne and he stands between the spread of Vortigern’s legs. He towers over Vortigern, but Vortigern sees the way he holds himself and knows they both know who is in charge.

“Kneel,” he purrs.

Arthur’s nostrils flare and he opens his mouth to say something- but Vortigern meets his eyes and whatever Arthur sees there causes him to close his mouth and look away. He goes down gingerly, shuffling onto his knees so that his head is at just the height that Vortigern could reach out and caress the line of his jaw if he had a mind to.

“Very good, Arthur,” he says quietly.

He lets Arthur kneel in silence for a moment, that he might consider just how little power he has. Then he cannot help himself anymore; he rests his palm on the crown of Arthur’s head. He rests his other hand on his own knee, fingers splayed open so that the dark ruby of his signet faces upwards, glittering in the candlelight. “Now be a good boy and kiss my ring.”

Arthur jerks, but Vortigern had anticipated it; he twists his fingers through Arthur’s hair and holds steady so that Arthur cannot pull away.

“Will you make me repeat myself?” he asks with a warning tug.

Arthur bows his head with a tremble, whether of rage or fear Vortigern cannot tell. The touch of his lips is light, barely a ghosting over the facet of the jewel.

He pulls Arthur’s head forward, gently, inexorably, until his cheekbone is flush with the inside of Vortigern’s thigh. He drops his other hand to rest on the the hollow of Arthur’s clavicle, feeling the bird wing flutter of his pulse. Oh, Arthur may pretend to be brave, but his body betrays his fear. Vortigern will see it unmasked and in the open before long. He can hardly wait. He runs his finger up Arthur’s neck, over his Adam’s apple and the stubble of his chin, onto those plush lips. “Open.”

Arthur glares up at him, rebellion warring in his eyes. But another twist of his hair is all the reminder it takes, and Arthur opens his mouth as neatly as a mare to bridle.

He presses his middle finger in to rest on Arthur’s tongue; Arthur has to open wider to accommodate the ruby on his signet.

“Suck.”

Arthur hesitates once more, but closes his mouth of his own accord and begins to suck. Vortigern takes a moment to simply enjoy the view: the humiliation and rage in Arthur’s eyes, the hollowing of his cheeks. The sight fans the fire stirring in his loins. He can already imagine what that tongue will feel like laving at his cock. But why only imagine?

He pulls his finger out with a wet pop and wipes the spit on Arthur’s cheek with a rough motion. The gleam of spit on his ruby annoys him; he turns his hand around and wipes that on Arthur’s other cheek, leaving a scratch from the facet of the jewel.

Next, he removes both his hands from Arthur, resting them on the sides of his throne. He will not let Arthur take solace in thinking that he was forced into what happens next. No, the sweetest tortures are the ones a man assents to of his own will. “Attend me.”

He knows Arthur understands his meaning right away. His cock is already tenting in his breeches, and the bulge is mere inches from Arthur’s face. Arthur lets out a breath, and a part of Vortigern does very much wish he refuses, for punishing him would be such a delight. But no, with anger writ in every move he raises his hands and sets to work on the laces of Vortigern’s breeches.

His fingers tremble as he works; at one point he fumbles the knot. Vortigern casually backhands him. The noise echoes off the marble of the chamber but does not fully cover Arthur’s cut off hiss.

His hands are more careful from then on, and it is only a moment later that Vortigern’s cock springs free, ruddy and eager.

Arthur freezes at the sight, hands still clenched uselessly around the stays of his breeches. One would think the boy had never seen a cock before.

“Come now, Arthur. Don’t play the coquette with me.”

He looks up, and Vortigern sees with delight that his cheeks are flushed an angry pink. “I won’t-“

“Oh, but I think you’ll find that you will.”

Still Arthur hesitates. After a moment longer Vortigern gestures towards the guards that brought Arthur to him and are currently watching the scene in impassive silence. The sound of their swords unsheathing breaks the quiet and drives a shiver through Arthur’s body. For a moment Arthur is still, and Vortigern wonders whether he will have to threaten the boy more overtly to get him to submit to this indignity.

“You were raised in a brothel. Surely your whores taught you how to suck a man’s cock?”

The mention of the women seems to rouse him. The first touch of his lips is hesitant, a slight press against the side of his cock. The second is lighter still, and the third and fourth more of the same. These fleeting kisses are enough to drive Vortigern to madness; the urge to hold Arthur in place and fuck his throat is growing.

Vortigern is on the verge of saying something when Arthur surges forward, attacking his cock with a vengeance until he’s biting off gasps. Arthur suckles at the head, laves his tongue over the seam beneath, and then parts his lips wide and takes the cock deep, until he’s swallowing it down, the muscles of his throat merciless.

Vortigern’s toes are curling inside his boots; his fingers are clutching the arms of the throne, white knuckled. He is close, so close-

And then he chances to meet Arthur’s eyes and sees a cruel satisfaction there, sees that Arthur sees that Vortigern is the one that is losing control in this.

He pulls himself out of Arthur’s mouth, then plants his leg on Arthur’s shoulder and kicks. Arthur goes sprawling backwards down the stairs of the dais. He lands hard on his back, eyes wide in surprise, mouth slick and cherry-red as he pants in pain and bewilderment.

Once his own desire is back under control, Vortigern slips his breeches down to pool around his calves. His cock, already fully erect from Arthur’s diligent work, bobs as he spreads his legs wide and leans back against the throne. The stone of the seat is cool against his thighs.

Arthur is trying very hard to look away from his cock and failing. His eyes stray back every other moment, as if he can’t help himself. Vortigern lets him struggle against himself for a moment before chuckling softly. “This is the throne you wished to sit on, is it not?”

Arthur’s voice is barely above a whisper. “My lord, I never wanted any throne, I-“

“Liar. You wanted this. Even now, you want this.”

His voice quickens in panic. “I- I didn’t want any of this, I-“

“But you did, Arthur. You wished to sit this throne. So sit on it.”

For the first time Arthur seems to truly notice the guards. His eyes dart back and forth like a trapped hare. Vortigern would not have thought it possible, but his blush grows even redder under their impassive stares.

“We are on a schedule, Arthur,” he says mildly.

“I’ve never- I don’t know how-“

“More lies? But very well, I’ll refresh your memory: first, you undress.”

Arthur removes his clothes in dull, jerky motions, dropping them one by one onto the floor.

He climbs onto the throne with halting movements. He stares at the floor for a moment, and the climbs gingerly onto the throne, bracing his feet on either side of Vortigern’s thighs. Vortigern waits patiently as he lines himself up, content to admire the pink cast of Arthur’s skin. The earlier flush of anger has deepened to the heady red of shame on his cheeks and at the hollow of his collarbone.

Arthur grabs the back of the throne and lines himself up, his lips pressed white. And then he lowers himself down against Vortigern’s cock. Vortigern has to bite back a gasp as he meets Arthur’s entrance and the tip presses in. Arthur lets out a shuddered breath and takes another finger-breadth slowly, ever so slowly.

Too slowly.

Patience rapidly fraying, Vortigern kicks Arthur’s foot off the side of the throne so that he falls- right onto Vortigern’s cock.

Above him, Arthur is letting out a strangled cry as the cock cleaves into him, but Vortigern almost doesn’t hear him. All he can do is revel in the silky tightness suddenly engulfing him. It is perfect, like no whore he’s ever had- and he needs more.

Even as Arthur tries to pull himself back from the intrusion, Vortigern thrusts up, heedless of Arthur’s whimpers.

Perfect, perfect, perfect. Vortigern’s mouth falls open despite himself, and he lets out a hoarse groan. “Faster,” he grits out.

Arthur begins to bounce up and down as Vortigern fucks into him, helpless to do anything but take it. His head falls to loll against his chest, his thighs sheened in sweat. And between his legs, his cock has begun to swell. Vortigern reaches out to cruelly palm at it, savoring Arthur’s tortured moan.

Vortigern grabs his buttocks and yanks him down harder when his pace begins to flag.

Arthur is a mess of whines, his cock helplessly twitching in the space between their bodies. He spasms suddenly, and then he’s coming, whimpering as his come makes a mess of his own stomach.

Vortigern fucks him through it, heedless to Arthur’s overstimulated whimpers as he chases his own orgasm. He finds it a moment later, on one last violent thrust of his cock.

He had imagined that coming would feel triumphant, the capstone of his domination of Arthur. But as he falls over the edge he sees Arthur’s hooded eyes on him. Arthur clenches around him, and he is lost to the shocks of his orgasm. And in that moment Arthur is the one in control. It is a small thing.

But Arthur saw it nonetheless.

He leans back in his throne- his!- as the guards pull Arthur away, now not protesting. It matters not what Arthur knows. Tomorrow Arthur will be dead, and Vortigern will be king: now, and for all the years thereafter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Have some porn! Happy Yuletide!


End file.
